Children of Semyaza

by Kevin C Noel

  Ingrid looked offended. “Are you calling me a distraction?”

  “Yes, I am. I mean no disrespect, but please go.”

  For a moment, she seemed rebellious. Yet, upon seeing his scowl, she retreated and vanished in the darkness. Ingrid knew this was something he needed to take care of alone. It was his duty. Despite what she thought, she decided then and there not to interfere.

  Octavius looked back at Garrick, who lay motionless. He was not dead yet, for Octavius could still hear his heartbeat with his heightened auditory senses. Yet the heartbeat was faint. He would die soon.

  After what seemed like hours, the three men had grown bored of torturing Garrick and walked away, laughing maniacally at what they felt was the best thing they had ever done. They left him soaked in a pool of his own blood. It took him some time to turn on his back in order to breathe, but breathing had become very difficult regardless. He could feel the blood soaking his lungs. As soon as he was able to open his eyes, he saw someone else standing by his body, looking down at him with his usual stern face.

  “Am I going to die, Mr. LeGrey?” Garrick asked through labored and gurgled breathing.

  “Any moment now,” he answered. His tone was noncommittal.

  “I won’t become one of…” he coughed. “I won’t become a demon.”

  “I understand, Garrick. I am not here to argue with you. You clearly don’t have the time for that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Octavius had turned his back on him to leave but stopped himself and knelt by his still body. “Think on this before you go,” he said. “You will soon pass on. Your body will be found in the morning and there will be no one to identify it. You have no identification, so you’ll be considered a homeless man on the street with no family. You’ll become a number in a book somewhere. A statistic. A plot of earth with no gravestone.”

  “Stop,” mumbled Garrick.

  “Meanwhile,” continued Octavius, “the three men who killed you will go on with their lives. They’ll marry and have children. Killing you would never cross their minds again.”

  “I said stop.”

  “Then back in Reading, Jared and his family will keep living their lives like you were never a member of that household. Your classmates, all the ones who tortured you and made you feel lower than a human being will become senators, CEOs, celebrities—and then there’s Celina. The world is hers, Garrick. Because you know more than anyone that she always gets her way.”

  “Stop talking!” Garrick finally yelled at the top of his voice.

  Octavius bent down until their cheeks touched and he began to whisper. “All of this will happen when you die, Garrick. Only you can change the outcome. And you know how.” He raised his head and their eyes met.

  Octavius was shocked by the change in Garrick’s visage. His eyes had turned a magnificent emerald green. “So, I ask you,” he finally said. “Do you want more?”

  An ethereal shape had begun to form behind Octavius. It changed into a smirking Jared; then he turned into an austere Delilah; then it divided itself and turned into Lester and Dennis; then it became one again and he was looking at his beloved Arianne—dewy eyed and upset. Garrick had raised his hand to touch her, but she vanished and turned into a clearer and more solid Celina. She was smiling as she always did—with evil intent. The way she always did when she won; when she’d gotten her way; whenever Garrick was miserable

  Garrick dropped his hand and with his last breath he said a faint, “Yes.”

  11

  We shall call these three unfortunate men Ilyich, Stakhanov and Vladimir. Earlier that night, they came across a young stranger who appeared disheveled and lost. Their first thought was to question him and determine whether he was a trouble maker. However, once they stopped the young man, he spoke fluent Russian. The three of them greeted this outcome with some surprise, especially after he claimed to be an American.

  They knew very little of American spies, but they had heard they learned to speak several languages in order to assimilate into any society. They would not be fooled and gave each other signals to apprehend him. But the American spy was too fast and eluded them.

  Despite the setback, the three men were steadfast in their duties and wanted more than anything to capture the spy. So, they hung around cautiously. After maybe an hour, Stakhanov spotted him running out of a church. He followed him stealthily, hiding whenever he looked back suspiciously. Eventually, he stopped running, and Stakhanov saw the perfect opportunity to incapacitate him with the butt of his rifle. Once this was done, they agreed the best course of action was to confirm he was a spy to justify what they had done. But when they searched him, they found nothing.

  Vladimir suggested letting him go. The other two disagreed.

  “Obviously, an accomplished spy would not give himself away so easily,” suggested Ilyich. The two nodded in agreement. They probably wouldn’t be able to pinpoint what drove them to such violence if you asked them, but they decided to beat him. When they were tired, Stakhanov attempted to slit his throat. But before he could do this, they spotted someone running toward them. The three were startled by the intervener’s speed and scurried away like a pack of frightened animals, but were still pleased with themselves.

  Shortly after, as they continued their patrol, they convinced themselves they had nothing to worry about. The spy would die from his injuries and they would be heroes. The thought excited them as they walked along the empty streets. A few minutes into their patrol, they heard footsteps from behind them. Instinctively, they pointed their guns in the direction of the noise and gasped at the sight of the bloodied American spy.

  His face was not human. He growled like an angry dog and his eyes were completely dark. This was no mere man. Vladimir fired the first shot. The bullet struck the spy’s shoulder, but he did not react. He didn’t even flinch from the impact. The other two attempted to shoot again but the spy was no longer before them. He vanished!

  Stakhanov walked up to the spot where the fiend stood, gun at the ready, and examined the entire area. Once he determined that the spy was no longer there, he looked over his shoulder and saw his comrades on the floor…and their heads were separated from their bodies. Stakhanov screamed and began to shoot around wildly, with no apparent target in sight. This was the work of a devil, he thought. He prayed. He made God a promise. If he could get out of this alive, he would retire from the martial life and be a man of peace. He would start a business. He would get married and have children. He would leave his old ways. He just needed to survive that night.

  A pity. Without warning, the spy appeared before him and thrust his hand into Stakhanov’s chest. Helpless, he watched as his heart was squeezed until it burst.

  Prayers could not save Stakhanov.

  12

  The bars would not bend despite the force and ferocity of Garrick’s blows. He kicked, punched, and head-butted, but nothing worked. Octavius trapped him in an enchanted cell in the basement of the Manor. Garrick was out of his mind and overcome by an amplified rage which made it impossible for him to distinguish friend from foe. Earlier, he was restrained by Octavius who conveniently let him loose on the three men who had killed him.

  “The bars are unaffected by brute force,” said Octavius. “You’ll find a way out once you are calm and collected.” Garrick glared at him with darkened eyes. He swore in several languages which made Octavius clap his hands excitedly. As he left the basement, he anticipated several more eye-opening experiences with his new Assenter.

  Previously, Octavius had witnessed him jump close to thirty feet between buildings effortlessly, thus beating the long jump world record long before his Questioning; he had seen him throw a classmate four times his size across a room like a feather; now, he spoke different languages innately. Of the several tongues Garrick spoke, he could only make out Italian, Lithuanian, Greek, Russian and German. “The gift of the Apostles,” he thought—"a terribly misinterpreted gift. This is xenoglossy! He knew of onl
y a few other people who possessed such a supernatural proclivity for languages—curiously, Volant was not one of them. Volant had to learn every language he knew, and even then he wasn’t fluent.

  However, before his death, he claimed the more he used the Knoxian Heighten Spell, the easier it was for him to pick up languages. Yes, Octavius was completely certain at that point—there was no doubting it. He had told Garrick he was a descendant of Volant. Now, with the blood of Semyaza awakened in him, it was time to tell him the whole truth. Things were a lot more complicated than that.

  What was left was for him to calm down.

  Garrick’s eyes were hot and itchy; his heart fought to escape his chest; and his head was numb and weightless. His eyes traced the bars around him. Hours passed before he realized his battering was useless because the bars remained unaltered. But Garrick was mad with rage. All he craved was death; He wanted to kill Jared for being a drunken torturer; to kill Delilah for being indifferent; to kill almost everyone in his class for bullying him; and kill Celina—for being Celina. Anyone in his way would die too.

  He punched the bars some more. When that failed, he held onto them and tried to bend them. Still nothing. He roared like a lion; the veins in his temple bulged out and his face turned red as a cherry. The bars were the only thing between him and his vengeance. He had begun to hate them as well. He had begun to hate the one who had put him in the cage. He cursed Octavius’ name at the top of his voice as he continued pushing, pulling, and kicking.

  “Ricky?” called out a familiar voice. Garrick stopped hollering for a moment and looked around the tight cellar. A dim ray of light brightened a dark corner. The light brightened until it gradually flooded the entire room. At the center of the light’s origin, floating like an angel, was a girl. A breeze he could not feel made her hair float ethereally as she glided toward him.

  He placed his face between the bars and gaped at the apparition. “Anne?” he said.

  She smiled as she bent down and touched Garrick’s cheek. Her touch was cold yet soothing. He wanted her hand on his cheek forever.

  “You’re letting your anger hinder you, my love,” she said. Her every word echoed.

  “This world has taken you away from me.” Boiling hot tears fell from his eyes. “I am lost without you.”

  “As I am without you. But you’ll never see me again if you continue this path of furious destruction. Store your anger and released it at the appointed time.”

  “When?” he asked. “When is this appointed time?”

  “You’ll know,” she said, and she kissed him.

  He blinked and she disappeared. He was alone again.

  His heart and breathing gradually returned to normal. As a result of the eerie trance, he remembered what happened to Arianne. Who were the people in black that tried to kill him and Octavius? The people who dragged Arianne away from him. He suspected Octavius knew more than he let on. And he was going to find out.

  He leaned back and pondered on the happenings of the last couple of months. As he did this, he examined the bars closely and noticed something he was fairly certain had only just materialized. Something unusually placed inside the cage.

  A silver doorknob.

  As he Read a copy of the Idiot in the library, Octavius heard footsteps heading upstairs into Garrick’s room. He glanced at Rumsfeld who sat quietly with his eyes closed by the window. “How?” Octavius asked him.

  “I showed him the one person who makes him happy,” answered Rumsfeld. “But all the efforts I put in making him forget her have been completely wasted. He remembers everything.”

  “His attachment to her is too strong. It was bound to happen sooner or later,” said Octavius.

  Rumsfeld stood up shakily and headed for the door. “With your permission, sir. I would like to retire to bed. Restraining a raging Nink is exhausting.”

  “By all means. Good work, Rumsfeld.” With a smirk clearly etched on his features, the Incardian warhorse dropped the book and headed upstairs as well. He knocked on Garrick’s door gently and waited for a response.

  “Come in,” said Garrick. He was trying on a navy-blue sports shirt with a pair of black trousers. “I think I need new shoes, Octavius,” he said. “I seem to have lost my old pair.”

  “I’ll let Rumsfeld know.”

  Garrick walked up to the window and watched the sun bathing the trees in the compound jealously. “I’m weak in the sun,” he said. “I can feel it just by standing here.”

  “Yes, the sun isn’t our friend,” answered Octavius.

  “Yet it doesn’t burn me, like it does vampires.”

  “Vampires don’t exist, Garrick. You won’t burn. It will only weaken you and make you vulnerable to attack.”

  “It explains why you looked like shit half the time back in Reading.” Octavius nodded. “Why does the sun have that effect on us?” Us, he thought. It seemed so strange how comfortable he was acknowledging what he had become so soon.

  “Because the sun’s enchanted.”

  Garrick turned to gape at him. “Enchanted?” he repeated. “How?”

  “Magirevs aren’t very fond of us anymore. For them, it was a significant weapon against us because, like they said, nothing is hidden under the sun.”

  “What are these Magirevs? Are they Atrumans?”

  “To be an Atruman means to be associated with the Fallen. Anything created by God and was never banished from the heavens cannot be considered an Atruman. Magirevs were created to serve a specific purpose in Heaven—they grew tired of that purpose and willingly chose to live among humankind. The difference between them and the Grigori is they never cohabited with humans.

  “And they tried to kill us because?”

  “Incardians fought a war with them—this was before my time. I’ve only met one Magirev who is pleasant to be around. I trust you’ll meet him soon.”

  Garrick looked back at the sun again. He considered the implications of being weakened by its rays. Then, once he had grown tired of it, he shut the curtains and walked over to Octavius. “What happened to her?” he asked, his once perplexed expression replaced by a determined one of purpose.

  Octavius didn’t feign ignorance and sighed softly as he sat on a chair by the door. “I honestly don’t know, Garrick.”

  “Who were the ones in black?”

  “I believe they were Shimshonites.”

  Garrick considered this for a moment. Shimshonites at Arianne’s house? And from what he could recall about the incident, her parents seemed to be working with them. What was the connection?

  “I have as many questions as you do on the subject,” said Octavius. “The Shimshonites were probably following me. They’ve always known of my mission. But I had eluded them for so long. I ’don't know how they found me.”

  “Is she safe?” His question was urgent and forceful.

  “They never kill humans,” answered Octavius. “I believe she is fine.”

  Garrick raised an eyebrow. “Wait…what mission?”

  Octavius cleared his throat and motioned for Garrick to sit. He sat on the edge of his bed, looking at his Questioner intently.

  “I realize now there’s no longer any need for unnecessary equivocation on my part,” Octavius began. “You are an Incardian now, and although still a fledgling, with time you shall become accustomed to our ways. More importantly, you are no longer narrow-minded. Surely you now believe in the unverifiable, am I right?” Garrick nodded reluctantly, and Octavius smirked victoriously. “Good,” he said. “Well, I want to confess, Garrick, that I’ve been dishonest with you. You found it hard to believe even the smallest details of my stories so I could not bring myself to tell you the truth about your… your lineage.”

  “I’m not descended from Volant Kesgaila then?”

  “More than that. Volant was peculiar. It is believed by some that he was the subject of a prophecy.”

  “Prophecy?”

  “The Prophecy of the Incardian Ambler. It stated that th
is Ambler would be the very last Atruman on Earth. Therefore, he is a super-immortal among immortals.” Octavius stood up and looked down at him. “Garrick, you are Volant reborn. You are the Ambler.”

  13

  JANUARY 1422. DEUTSCHBROD

  Jekuthiel dipped a finger into a puddle of blood and licked it with malicious satisfaction. As he wiped his mouth and eyed the hundreds of dead bodies sprawled out around him on the battlefield, he felt a slight pinch of disappointment—not enough lives were lost that day. He noted a crucifix dangling from the neck of one of the dead men and scoffed loudly. “Catholics! I detest Catholics,” he said. “I cannot approve of any religion that reveres a woman over a man.”

  Volant scanned the corpses as he walked around the battlefield until he found what he was looking for. “You’re misinterpreting catholic doctrine,” he said as he pulled out one of the Cravers from the chest of a fallen soldier. “Catholics worship the Christ. His mother is acknowledged for her… her contribution.”

  “Contribution, hah!” spat Jekuthiel.

  “These Hussite reformers we fight for do not fancy the thought of acknowledging her as well. You must feel right at home with them.”

  Jekuthiel guffawed maniacally. “You fought for them as well. Why do it if you disapprove?” he asked.

  Volant looked back at his Questioner with a raised eyebrow. “You picked the sides, Jekuthiel.”

  “But you had no objections.”

  “Because I’m apathetic. I just needed to satisfy my urge to fight.”

  Three warhorses approached them on the battlefield turned graveyard. The General—a brown haired bearded man who wore an eye-patch over his right eye—dismounted his steed and walked up to the two of them with open arms. “Amazing!” he declared as he clasped Volant’s shoulders. “Just like your father at Grunwald, you are a fierce fighter, my Lord. You have the gratitude of John Zizka!”